A Well-Behaved Woman

by Therese Anne Fowler

  “By all means!”

  “The Vanderbilts are a fine family. They give their time and money to good causes. They’re active in their church. They have friendships with most everyone of merit—including President Grant. Yet your friend Mrs. Astor, for example, has never once received any of them, not even my fiancé’s mother, a woman of exceptional taste and irreproachable habits—and a descendant of Isaac Roosevelt, whose contributions to New York are manifest, as I’m certain you know.”

  “What a speech!”

  “Forgive me. It’s just that I must remedy this situation.” She lowered her voice and added, “because in this remedy lies my own success.”

  “You desire a place in best society, too—”

  “No. That is, yes, of course I do. More to the point, it’s that my value—as a bride, I mean—lies in being able to improve the Vanderbilts’ social standing. I am doing all I can, but—”

  “But perhaps it’s not enough to validate his choice, is that it?”

  “This is my fear, yes.”

  “And you worry he’ll withdraw his offer of marriage.”

  She nodded. “The Vanderbilts deserve to be known for the excellent people they are. They deserve to be in best society. You can’t disagree.”

  “No, in fact I quite agree. Why, I used to see the Commodore often, and was fast friends with his son, C.J.—that is, before the good man lost his way, poor fellow.”

  Alva was heartened by this. She said, “Then will you help me design a solution of some kind? Just now I’ve only my gratitude to offer in return—”

  “Who would wish for more?” he said. “I am pleased and honored that you sought me out. I am precisely the man for the job, don’t you know.”

  “I was certain you would be. Perhaps first you could advise me on this pressing matter: for my wedding gown, I’ve been to see Mrs. Buchanan—”

  “One of my dear friends!”

  “Yes? Well, supposing you and I find a way to maintain my engagement—”

  “We shall,” Mr. McAllister asserted. “You may place your faith in me.”

  “I have to pay a deposit for the gown in advance, and I am unable to pay it. The gown will be marvelous—a showpiece, truly, and worth every bit of the thousand dollars it’s likely to cost. How might I persuade her to defer all payment until my father receives the settlement?”

  “Miss Smith, I think I see what you’re about, but my word, a thousand-dollar gown is not what you need. Oh my, no. You need a simple gown—litotes, my dear. Sublime understatement is what you want, if you hope to be received by Mrs. Astor and her set.”

  The maid brought a plate of teacakes and biscuits and the chocolate pot, and served them while he continued, “Your father’s financial difficulties are understandable. These things happen to even the best of us. Why, many of my Southern compatriots have found themselves in similar straits. A terrible thing, the war. Terrible. You should not be blamed for such misfortunes! And although I don’t seek to deny my dear friend Mrs. Buchanan the opportunity to have your business, I wonder if you might, for this, look to a gown you own already, one that can be altered, say, in some divinely original manner. Your mother’s wedding gown—is that in your possession?”

  “I believe so. But it’s blue.”

  “All the better! We’ve had thirty years of white! How predictable, how dull! Now, Mrs. Buchanan is too expensive for this endeavor—and to be frank, too fond of her nouveau riche clients’ tastes, though she’d never dare foist those tastes on Mrs. Astor. No indeed. And as the social circles don’t overlap, Mrs. Buchanan manages to have the best of all of them. This is how it’s done, don’t you know.”

  “Actually, I—”

  “Take your mother’s gown to Miss Donovan, a young but exceptionally talented seamstress on Prince Street. Tell her what I said—sublime understatement. She’ll know what to do. As for Mrs. Buchanan, tell her that you’ve had a fit of sentimentality in regard to your late mother and simply must wear her dress for your wedding, as you’re the first of the Smith girls to wed. And in the same breath, tell her that you adore her work and that you’ll visit her again when you’re home from your honeymoon, when, as your dear friend Mr. McAllister advised, you will order your entire wardrobe for the following winter.”

  Alva was unconvinced. “You’re certain this is the better approach?”

  “You did ask my counsel.”

  “Of course. Forgive me.”

  Mr. McAllister inclined his head, then continued, “It is essential that when you converse with these ladies, you include my name. It is, we might say, the wave of a wand in cases such as these.” He waved the metaphorical wand. “Magic is ever a trick, and yet the beholder believes.”

  Alva would like to believe. She said, “You are a wonder. I’m much obliged.”

  “And as to demonstrating your value,” he told her, “I have just the solution: if you and your fiancé agree the timing is all right—considering mourning, I mean—you shall be among my most especial guests for the Patriarch Ball in February, where I shall personally present you to Mrs. Astor.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Most seriously.”

  “It was my impression that neither my fiancé nor I qualified—”

  “My dear, you must trust that I know what I’m about. As you said yourself, I am expert in these matters.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. This invitation—well, it was too much to hope for,” she said. “But it is precisely what I need. I’m certain my fiancé’s family will approve.”

  “I suspect they will. Tell him right away; he’ll want time to spruce up his formal wardrobe. And for this event, too, I advise that your gown be understated.” Mr. McAllister paused. “Mrs. Astor enjoys seeing ladies in rose colors, don’t you know, so you’ll only improve your case by wearing one such gown. Here again Miss Donovan can be your guide. Be sure to say I advised you so, and that she should feel comfortable deferring her fee until April.”

  “Mr. McAllister, I am grateful beyond words,” Alva said, trying to keep her emotions in check. After all, by connecting him securely to the Vanderbilts, he would profit as much as she. It was a business arrangement. Gentlemen made such arrangements all the time and certainly none felt weepy when a deal was made. How amusing it would be, though, if the Wall Street sidewalks were filled with men walking about, dabbing their eyes and clasping their hands as they looked heavenward.

  He said, “Nothing pleases me more than to aid my good friends.”Here.” He held out the plate of treats. “Perhaps now with your mind at ease, you’ll regain your appetite. You’ve grown far too thin.”

  She took a biscuit. “My appetite is as good as ever—in fact I’m hungry all the time. I am this thin only because our meals are budgeted. We’ve no more money and I—” Her voice thickened and she paused to regain her composure.

  It was no use. Angry tears came as she told him, “It has been an awful day. I was robbed.”

  “Robbed? My word!” He handed her his handkerchief. “Were you injured?”

  “Only my pride—though my family is injured by the loss. I was wrong to go out alone.”

  “You mustn’t be critical of yourself. One can see you are well intended! I’ll direct my grocer to send over some goods, and you’ll order more on my account—no, do not attempt to object. Consider it a wedding gift in advance. And you’ll need cab fare,” he said, drawing his wallet from his jacket and giving her two dollars.

  Recovering herself, she said, “You are a godsend. I’ll repay you, for all of it, as soon as I can.”

  “Don’t think of it. Friends aid friends.” He clapped his hands. “Now, your goal is unlikely to be accomplished solely by attending this ball—you do understand. Wars are campaigns, not solitary battles. Your attendance at the Patriarch’s is not an assault,” he said. “It’s a quiet initial incursion.”

  “I understand.”

  “Very good. Feel free to call on me for any need. You�
�ll want some advice, perhaps, in arranging your household. Have you chosen a place already? I can recommend an excellent property agent.”

  “My fiancé’s father has found us a house on Forty-fourth Street near Fifth Avenue.”

  “Above the Forties! Ah, very good. A fine location for young people who are unbothered by the time it takes to travel such a distance. It’s becoming more fashionable, to be sure. I will commend my friend on his choice. Off with you, now,” he said, rising. Alva stood, too. “Your fiancé will be pleased to get your news—so pleased, I’ll wager, that he may attempt to elope!”

  “You’re quite the optimist,” Alva said.

  “The world is wonderful, wonderful, I tell you, if one only views it in the right manner.”

  * * *

  After buying two chocolate-dipped langues de chat from a baker’s cart, Alva got a cab and, en route to the Vanderbilts’ house, sat back with a sigh of relief as much for her feet as for her stomach as for her life.

  What a tale she had for Consuelo! Except, might it be better to let everyone believe that the invitation to the Patriarch Ball had arisen only due to Mr. McAllister’s high esteem? Though she trusted her friend completely, this plan would be most effective if no word got out (even if merely by an accidental slip) that Alva had been instrumental in arranging it.

  Wave a wand, cast a spell.

  At 459 Fifth Avenue, Alva went to the door and rang the bell. “Alva Smith to see Mr. Vanderbilt. William, that is. W.K.”

  She attempted to disguise her limp as the butler led her into the parlor. He gestured to a sofa—“Please wait here”—and she dropped into it with relief the moment he turned away.

  “What a surprise,” William said when he joined her. She noted he did not say pleasant.

  Feigning confidence, she told him, “I have news that demanded to be given in person.”

  “Good news, I hope.”

  She nodded. “While I was out this afternoon, I happened to see Mr. McAllister. He would like to invite us to the Patriarch Ball.”

  “He told you this?”

  “He did. Knowing that we’re to be married, he’s taken special interest in bringing us into society this way. He’s known my family since I was a child,” she went on, improvising. “It means a great deal to him to do this for me. For the two of us, that is.” She made herself smile as she’d done on the night he proposed they marry. Her prize-like smile. A smile that contained all she had to offer that Theresa Fair did not and could not offer, ever.

  “Well, that’s capital,” he said, smiling now, too. “Won’t my sisters be delighted with this news! Did you know this was in the offing?”

  Alva attempted a coy expression. “Perhaps.”

  “Will you stay for tea? Mother and Lila are out, but Florence will want to get every detail, and it won’t be nearly as satisfying for her if she has to hear it all from me.” He rang for a maid. “Cook’s got some excellent lobster salad she puts on buttered toast. Mother says you ought to eat more.”

  “I do want to oblige your mother. I will be glad to stay.”

  * * *

  In bed that night, after attempting to sleep, Alva relit the lamp and turned to face Armide. “Wake up. I need to confess something.”

  Armide kept her eyes closed and stayed burrowed under the quilts. “Alva, go to sleep.”

  “It was only because of our situation,” Alva said. “I was going to fix everything.”

  “What are you on about?”

  “I lost all the jewelry.”

  Armide opened her eyes and sat up. “You mean—”

  “From the ‘treasure chest,’ yes, and no use scolding me because I already feel terrible and there’s nothing to be done. I was on my way to a pawnshop. But there was a scene—an accident, and crowds of people, and the box was stolen from me.” She said, “Do not tell the girls. I’ll replace everything later, when I have my own budget.”

  “But it won’t be the same. Those were heirlooms!”

  “Well … I’ll buy better things, with better history.”

  “But not our history.”

  “This is all I can do! I’m sorry.”

  Armide drew a heavy breath. “I know.”

  Alva put out the lamp and they lay in silence for a while, but she knew her sister was still awake. She said, “I wish I liked him better.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “William. He has fine looks, and he’s perfectly pleasant, but … well, he’s not especially interesting. I always imagined my husband would be stimulating and sophisticated and clever, concerned with more than sport.”

  Armide turned over to face Alva. “You don’t have to marry him. We can find ways to earn our living, meager as it may be. Or Daddy might be persuaded to move out of town, and we could till a big garden for our food, and—”

  “What? No!” Alva said, thinking of tales she’d read of failed crops and marauding vagrants and the inevitability of flea-ridden beds. “I am certain my affections will improve, with time. He has excellent teeth.”

  * * *

  Snow had fallen steadily for two days, resulting in a foot of accumulation and a need to trade out coaches for sleighs. Now, on the night of the Patriarch Ball, the snowfall had ended and the clouds had cleared, revealing the starlit sky. Manhattan’s freshly whitened streets delighted Alva. The city was so much more festive in the snow! Sleigh bells rang out from equipages both nearby and in the distance as William’s coachman handed her into the sleigh. William, bundled in a beaver fur overcoat, got in and sat beside her while the coachman climbed into the front, took up the reins, and urged the horses on their way.

  Mr. McAllister had advised Alva to arrive late so that he would be available to lead them to Mrs. Astor straightaway. “It won’t do for word of your presence to reach her before you do. And remember: all we desire is that she grant you recognition. A small incursion, that’s our goal.”

  A small incursion, on a snow-bright evening with a handsome gentleman at her side. A handsome gentleman who evidently still wanted to marry her, who did not want to marry a red-haired silver heiress and may not have ever even considered such a thing or sailed with Gordon Bennett or doubted that Alva Smith was the girl for him. Whether he had or not, Miss Lydia Roosevelt had inadvertently done them a great favor by making Alva think so.

  “Excited?” William asked.

  She nodded. “Pleased as well. This is such a vote of confidence for our future.”

  “It is! You should have seen Lila, fussing about my tie, forcing different shirt studs on me—”

  “She wants to make everything perfect. Our success will benefit her and Florence and my sisters as well. They’ll be very much in demand, I’m certain.”

  “In no small part due to you, dear. I’m looking forward to seeing our names in tomorrow’s society page report. I think Father may have it framed!”

  The Patriarch Ball had been formed under Mr. McAllister’s direction a few years earlier. He had gathered some of New York’s top gentlemen and they’d crafted a list of twenty-five men (themselves included) whose families had been responsible for establishing Manhattan’s society well before the British occupation of 1776 and who, through means the men chose not to examine too closely, had by now acquired a net worth of one million dollars or more. They then named this group the Patriarch Society. They tasked each member to invite to the ball, held near the end of winter, twelve other suitable guests—that is, persons with roots at minimum two generations deep, preferably three.

  Special tickets were printed, upon which the name of the invitee would be written by the patriarch (more often, his wife or her secretary). A theme was designated. Formal dress was required. There would be no entry without the special ticket—which, as Mr. McAllister had foreseen, immediately became the most sought-after object in town. The surest way to create desire is to first establish denial.

  For his final creative act, Mr. McAllister had recruited Caroline Astor to be the feminine face
of the organization, its ceremonial head and symbol of preeminence. There could be no better choice; the Astors went back to when there were more Indians than white men on Manhattan Island. Besides which, he liked her better than anyone else in society, calling her privately “my Mystic Rose.” Or so the story went.

  The influx of so many arrivistes—the instant millionaires of the gold and silver strikes out west, of stock speculation, of land sales, of war profiteering—had amounted to a steady wave of uncouth, sometimes unwashed nouveaux riches flooding New York, eager, insistent, loud, expecting entrée into the social scene. Most of these people didn’t know a soupspoon from a tablespoon. They understood calling etiquette not at all. They had no sense of propriety. Reports said that some were showing up at the Academy of Music on the fashionable nights demanding the best seats, and when denied they attempted to buy boxes from the boxholders directly.

  Alva suspected that Mr. McAllister found this both entertaining and useful, as it had created a need for the clear establishment of order—which created endless opportunities for him to guide desperate mothers in getting their daughters into better circles, if not the best one, a process in which wallets were opened and thousands spent, from which he benefited in myriad ways.

  At tonight’s ball, Mr. Astor would as usual be absent. He sailed his yacht every winter to the hospitable climes of Jacksonville, Florida, staying until he was required for church appearance at Easter. Thus Mr. McAllister was obliged to be Caroline Astor’s escort, as he often was. Once she’d made her rounds, however, she would be content to sit on a velvet settee on a dais with a carefully selected coterie of sycophantic admirers at hand. There she reportedly would watch the younger set perform the figures. She would be at turns generous and critical in her commentary. She would listen to “news” and proffer opinions that would be widely cited in the homes of all the best families in the weeks ahead as the ladies went about making their calls.

  If Alva could gain Mrs. Astor’s favor this evening (such a thing was not impossible, after all), she would be able to rest easy for as long as she remained in that favor. For years, possibly. Perhaps forever. Really, why shouldn’t Mrs. Astor judge them worthy additions to society’s top echelon?